


Brunch with Bruce

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce takes care of Dick, Fluff, Gen, Sick Fic, kind of, more of an exhausted fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 15:58:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13814556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Dick's overworked and exhausted, but he's not going to let that (or a cold) keep him from having lunch with Bruce.





	Brunch with Bruce

**Author's Note:**

> Written based on a prompt request on my tumblr

Noon was too early to be awake. Dick decided this as he ordered a soda and prayed the combination of sugar and caffeine would give him enough energy to make it through lunch with Bruce. It had to. He hadn’t seen Bruce socially in weeks. Hadn’t seen him at all actually.

He picked up the menu and frowned at the black lines on cream paper. What happened to ‘let’s get hot dogs?’ How had the ended up at a brunch place instead? Hot dogs were so much easier than making a decision with a sleep-deprived brain.

“Anything look good?” Bruce asked, prompting Dick to peer at him over the menu.

He shrugged, “The chicken and waffles maybe.” Carbs and sugar. It’d knock him out later, but maybe, just maybe push him through a few hours with his dad. That’s all he really wanted anyway.

Bruce hummed his answer, eyes turning back down to the selection of foods in front of him. Dick took the opportunity to examine his dad. He looked good. Better than he had a few weeks ago coming off the last patrol Dick had done with him. Damian had said they’d taken more than a few nights off and the extra rest looked good on Bruce.

A pang of longing hit Dick in the stomach, not for the old days of being Robin and running across rooftops every night with Bruce, but for the quiet days, they used to have. For all the quiet nights he’d missed because he wanted to pick fights about independence and being his own man. If he could go back and do anything he’d fight less and enjoy more.

“What about you?” he asked, “Anything look better than Alfred’s cooking?”

“There’s little better than Alfred’s cooking.” Bruce smiled, but didn’t look up, “Maybe the trout.”

Even with the words, he didn’t look up, attention still on the page, possibly considering something else, or lost somewhere else entirely. How many stories of field trips and science lessons had Bruce spent half listening, half working out a case? Dick wasn’t angry. He understood. He’d just spent three weeks barely sleeping, eating, or doing anything but hunt down a new dangerous strain of heroin haunting Bludhaven. He just wished, with as much good as Bruce did, that his dad would retire or cut down on what he did. Bruce wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop Dick from wanting him to find happiness in something else. Something that didn’t mean Dick spending his nights calling to check in or worrying over how late Alfred’s all clear message came.

At the very least he wanted to see his dad looking this refreshed on a regular basis. Not just when Damian was down with the flu or when an injury forced him to stay home for an extended period of time. Dick almost smiled at the thought that Bruce wanted the exact same for them all.

“So.” The menu folded and with it Dick’s time to reminisce and worry, “You made a big catch last night.”

Dick grinned, “I had to. I refused to miss brunch with Bruce.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, “You make that sound like we’re on some morning news show.”

“Never.” Dick said, “You wouldn’t come if I invited you, and I know this because” he couldn’t stop a yawn from escaping his chest, “I have.”

“That was one time.”

Their waitress returned, setting a glass of water and Dick’s soda before them and cut off their conversation. “Have you had enough time to look over the menu?” she asked.

They confirmed that they had and ordered, Bruce going with the fish, and Dick the chicken and waffles by default.

Dick’s throat was scratchy and felt worse the more minutes ticked by, and he hoped it was just dry. A sip of his soda sent the scratch into the kind of tickle that promises a good string of coughs, and Dick got his napkin up to his mouth just in time to catch them.

When he opened his eyes he found Bruce frowning at him, “I’m fine.” he sniffed, his nose not nearly as unclogged as it had been before the fit, “Just a tickle from the soda.”

He was exhausted and chugged down almost half the soda (cough free) in an attempt to stave off the hot ache in his whole body slowly coming over him. He’d caught a few hours sleep before meeting Bruce, but before that he’d been up almost forty-eight, and it was hitting him hard.

Dick reached up to let his palm, cooled by the cup, rest against the back of his neck. It felt good and scared away a bit of the exhaustion. At least until his hand warmed and he was left with a slightly wet palm slapped against his skin.

Bruce was eyeing him again, so Dick attempted a smile and a change of conversation, something about work to keep Bruce talking and not noticing. The last thing he wanted was his dad cutting their lunch short because he wanted Dick to get more rest.

“Dick,” Bruce said, with that tone, the one that told Dick he shouldn’t have bothered trying to hide how tired he was and should have started making excuses about why he was fine. “When did you last get a full night’s rest?”

Dick shrugged, at this point saying nothing might be better than admitting the truth.

Bruce nodded, “Why don’t we get the food to go and I’ll drive you back? You had a rough week.”

Dick shook his head, “I’m fine, B. Really. I can make it through lunch then–” a traitorous yawn cut him off, “then, I can sleep.” he finished to the disbelieving look on his dad’s face.

Bruce waved over the first server he saw, “Would you mind letting our waitress know we need the check and the food to go?” he said, ignoring the daggers Dick was glaring at him.

“Really, I’m good. We still have time to tell them we changed our minds.” Dick tried again when the man had walked off.

He wouldn’t mind so much if he knew Bruce would stay, but Bruce had his own life, and things to keep him busy. He’d drop Dick off and that’d be it, he would go to a meeting and Dick would sulk around his apartment his alone time with Bruce cut in half.

Sure he could head to the manor or plan more trips into Gotham on a regular basis, but those always involved everyone else. Dick loved his family. Loved seeing Cass and Damian. Tim, and Alfred, and even Jason when he was around. But Dick also loved spending time with Bruce, and just Bruce. A growing family meant shrinking alone time with his dad, and he hadn’t fully appreciated it until it was gone. He’d grasp for every moment he could get at this point.

Bruce shook his head at him, “Your health is more important than toughing it out here.” he said and pulled his phone out, his fingers rapidly messaging someone.

Dick was tired. He was tired and he was about to lose the only time he had with his dad in forever. And so he snapped at the sight of the phone, hot anger rising up against the exhaustion in a fount.

“So that’s it? You’re going to drop me off at home and then what? Head off to your next meeting? Pencil me in again in two weeks?”

Bruce clicked his phone off and looked up, “The opposite. I’ve canceled everything for the day. I thought I’d stay with you.”

Just like that Dick’s anger fizzled and left him even more exhausted than before. Exhausted and aching and too hot. The tickle was teasing his throat again and Dick had to swallow it back with what was now watery soda. He felt terrible. Just the thought of not having to do anything but let Bruce drive him back to his apartment and take him up left him both more tired and grateful.

“Sorry.” he sighed, setting the cup down, “Maybe I’m not as fine as I thought.”

Dick leaned more and more into Bruce’s help as they made their way back. First letting him carry the food, then by allowing a hand on his arm as they climbed the stairs to his apartment, and finally by falling into the couch and letting Bruce hover around him, pulling out the food, finding silverware, more drinks and then by pressing a pill bottle into Dick’s hand.

That made him open his eyes to look at it, “Allergy medicine?” he asked.

“You sniffled the whole drive back, your breathing is heavier than usual, and I didn’t forget that coughing fit you had at the restaurant.”

Dick chuckled and started a new string of coughs taking his chest. When he caught his breath he sighed, “I don’t think it’s allergies.”

Bruce nodded, “Bed then, as soon as you’ve eaten. I doubt you did much of that this past week.”

Dick smiled, “You’ve got me there. Besides, I’d hate to let any of this go cold.”

They ate, Dick picking his way through half the plate before he gave up. As hungry as he’d been earlier he wasn’t in the mood now. He wanted to not move or think or do anything. He wanted his bed and pillows, his throat to stop hurting, and–Bruce’s hand was on his arm again and Dick looked up.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Dick opened his mouth to protest but Bruce cut him off, “I’ll take care of the plates, come on.” his hand turned to a grip, and he helped Dick stand. Dick wobbled, the movement making him dizzy, his hand darted out to grab Bruce’s arm as well to steady himself.

“You alright, Chum?” his dad’s voice was quiet and worried in his ear.

“Just tired.”

Dick fell into his bed without even changing. His face hitting the pillow like he’d just fallen into clouds, slightly lumpy, but still wonderful clouds. Distantly he felt Bruce tugging off his shoes and socks, then his t-shirt, and humming over the jeans. Dick let a hand wave him off.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll sweat to death.”

Dick gave him a frustrated moan, “Fine, hand me some sweats.”

He let his palm hang open on the bed until he felt the soft fabric of his Gotham U sweats (they were the softest he owned) drop onto it. Then he moaned again, just to let Bruce know how much he was putting him out by making him change, instead of letting him sleep and sat up. He shimmied out of the jeans and into the sweats falling back onto the bed the moment he was done to curl up in a ball. He didn’t even care that he wasn’t under the comforter or sheets.

A heavy blanket fell on him, then Bruce was tucking it around him. He felt fingers brush hair off his forehead, lingering for a second, then moving to adjust the pillow slightly. The heat of his father near him disappeared for a second and Dick almost thought he’d gone to clean up, his job of making sure Dick was in bed complete. Then a chair settled close to the bed and creaked slightly as Bruce sat down.

The back of Bruce’s hand found his forehead again, a brief pause to check for fever, then turning to have callused fingers run through his hair. Dick was already fast approaching sleep, and the repetitive soothing motion was enough to tug another yawn out and make him snuggle closer to the pillow. He wrapped an arm around it, and tucked on hand under it, pressing his cheek close.

“Not gonna do those dishes?” Dick said around the yawn.

“I thought I’d stay till you were out. Then get them.”

Dick cracked an eye open and pulled his hand out from under the pillow, reaching out to take Bruce’s free one.

“Thanks, B.”

His dad leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Always.”


End file.
